


Alive.

by sagelabyrinth



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 01:04:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21235580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagelabyrinth/pseuds/sagelabyrinth
Summary: Being alive-- truly alive-- means more than to breathe, than to have your heart pump. It means to have feeling. It means to have any sense of happiness, any shred of light in a world that was dark.Holden had none, so he wasn't truly alive.





	Alive.

Holden wasn't alive.

Being alive-- truly alive-- means more than to breathe, than to have your heart pump. It means to have _feeling._ It means to have any sense of happiness, any shred of light in a world that was dark.

Holden had none, so he wasn't truly alive.

He was going through the motions of everyday life without having to give it thought. His brain-- his entire being-- was shut off, leaving only a sack of skin and bone to be of use.

Every small task was so tiring, so troublesome. It was as if someone put a fifty-pound weight onto Holden's back and was forcing him to carry on, as if he hadn't been affected.

Other's had noticed, sure. He'd gotten the occasionally, "How are you, kid?" from Bill, and an "I hope all is well." from Wendy-- both of which Holden replied with some form of "I'm fine, everything's fine."

But in reality, _nothing was fine._ Holden had been a shell of himself for months following Atlanta. He had done _everything right_, but no one cared. The police in Atlanta didn't, they had only tried Wayne Bertram Williams with two counts of murder; for adults, nonetheless.

There was no justice. Not for Edward Smith, Alfred Evans, Milton Harvey, Yusef Bell, Angel Lenier, Jeffrey Matthis, Eric Middlebrooks, Christopher Richardson, LaTonya Wilson, Aaron Wyche, Anthony Carter, Earl Terell, Clifford Jones, Darron Glass, Charles Stephens, Aaron Jackson, Patrick Rogers, Lubie Geter, Terry Pue, Patrick Baltazar, Curtis Walker, Joseph Bell, Timothy Hill, and William Barrett.

_None_ of those boys got justice. And for that, Holden was as dead as they were. 

"Can you do your fucking job?" Bill had confronted Holden in the hallway leading to the BSU. He couldn't remember the events that precipitated.

Holden just stared back, his eyes could barely focus on Bill's figure in front of him. Perhaps it was the dose of Valium he had, or the new-found habit of day-drinking Holden had taken up, or maybe even a mixture of both.

"For _months _now you've been walking around, all mopey and shit, slacking off your work, disrespecting your boss-- and fellow co-workers, might I add-- and what have you got to say for it, huh?"

"Bill," Holden spoke harshly. His voice was gravelly due to the misuse and his lack of sleep, "go to Hell."

The older man had a truly shocked expression as Holden pushed passed him.

The silence was splitting his ears. His heart _thump, thump, thumping _made his jaw vibrate. Holden's body was floating away in a haze of fog, blurriness.

A tingling sensation struck Holden's legs before a wave of cold rushed over him.

He was on the ground. In flashes, he heard Bill calling his name, his distorted figure reaching out to him. Holden tried, he desperately tried, to call out; but he couldn't make his mouth work.

"Come on, kid, breathe!"

Was he not breathing? He thought he was breathing.

Bill's voice was wavy, Holden almost couldn't make out the sounds. Slowly, his eyes went dark. More and more noises faded out of earshot, everything stopped dead in their tracks.

"You fucking dipshit," said Bill. Holden had _just _opened his eyes, how could he have fucked something up already?

Holden's body ached, his head pounded faster than his heart, he groaned in agony.

"Hurts, doesn't it?"

He tried to sit upright, but that proved to envoke more pain than it relieved, so he laid back down, "Wha... Wha' happen..ed?" a doped up Holden slurred together.

"You almost OD'd, numbnuts. Taking Valium with whiskey? What the fuck? Are you trying to _kill yourself?"_

"Yes," Holden responded quietly. Instantly feelings of regret and dread filled his chest as he realized what he had said, "I-"

"Kid, do you actually feel that way?" Bill was in utter shock. As if he had never noticed the complete lack of _passion _Holden had felt recently.

He didn't reply. He just turned his head away in shame.

"Goddamnit, kid, talk to me!" Bill roared.

Holden flinched harshly. Bill sighed and reapproached, "I'm sorry, okay? But you _can't _throw that shit at me then shut down."

"Sorry."

"Stop," Bill put a hand up in front of him, "just... Stop."

The two sat in silence for several minutes. Bill was fuming, Holden could tell. But he wouldn't leave. Bill stuck by Holden's side for days until the doctor had cleared the young man to go home.

Even once Holden made it home, Bill still stayed.

"Alright, Ford. You're going to sit your ass down," Bill shoved Holden's numb body onto his sofa, "on that couch, and tell me what the _fuck _has been going on."

Holden sat on his sofa with a far-off expression. He _had _heard Bill, but he just didn't _care enough _to answer.

Bill threw a cooking pan from the cabinet onto the wood floor with a _Crash!_ Holden snapped himself to attention. The sudden loud noise kicked his heartrate into overdrive and hitched his breathing.

"Talk. Now." Bill commanded.

Holden's ragged breath stayed persistent as he nodded, "Ever since Atlanta, I've been... Altered."

Bill scoffed, "I'll say. Why? We got the guy, why would that upset you?" his brows furrowed intensely.

Holden felt anger rise in his whole body, "But we didn't, did we?! We didn't _really get _Wayne Williams. He fucking walked!" Holden's voice was pitched higher with his loosening temper.

"He _murdered twenty-four young boys, _he didn't get tried for a single one. So, if that's what you call a victory, _Tench,_ I don't want it."

Bill remained in stunned silence throughout Holden's ranting. He was more surprised the kid had _that _in 'im, if anything.

"Holden, the man's serving two life sentences. I'd say that's a victory."

"You don't understand..."

"Then let me," Bill said softly, his eye almost pleaded to Holden.

"There was no justice for any of the boys. There was no closure for any of their families. It's not fair! I feel like we-- I, failed them."

Bill let out a small chuckle, "Kid, if you want fair in _this _profession, I gotta say, you'll be waitin' a long time." Holden was less than assumed at the older man's comment.

He sighed, "Holden, you can't put that on yourself. You're one man, that's too much guilt to harbor." Bill put a gentle hand on Holden's shoulder

Holden turned in his direction, his ears were lined with loose tears, "I can't take it, Bill," he sniffled softly, "I can't..."

"You don't have to, not alone. Not anymore." Holden sobbed into his knees, Bill gently pat him on the back, "It's okay, kid. You're alright."

**Author's Note:**

> my endings are trash but y'all still read them anyway


End file.
